All That Is Gold
by Insanity's Servant
Summary: A collection of one-shots, each centered around a non-canon character. Each story will be based on a line of Aragorn's poem. All that is gold does not glitter, not all who wander are lost... Please read and review!
1. All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

_All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter_

_or_

_What Elrond Says  
><em>

Yellow and red flames burned brightly on their torches, lighting the quiet halls of Rivendell. Arwen lay asleep in her rooms, dreaming of the Ranger who had so recently returned from the wilds. Four Hobbits slept, oblivious to the darkness waiting for them. The woods around it elven haven were silent. Even the leaves seemed to hold their breath. Something was coming, and any elf could sense it. Far away, a single wolf stepped over a fallen branch as it climbed a low hill. Its paws hardly bent the grass it walked upon. Reaching the summit, the grey wolf sat. His dark eyes scanned the woods. A white owl landed on a branch of an ancient oak. The wolf watched it, but not hungrily. The two animals watched each other silently. Then the wolf raised its head to the full moon and howled.

Deep in the library of Imladris, an elf raised his dark haired head, listening to the sound. _He must be just as lonely as I am._ Erestor sighed, then squinted closer at the faded parchment. Candlelight flicked on the desk, making his task even more difficult. Once black ink was faded to grey. Thousands of years had done its damage to the priceless document, despite Elrond's protection.

Erestor was one of the few people who knew of Vilya, and the power Master Elrond wielded with it. Vilya, or the Ring of Air. Forged in dark times as a false gift from Sauron, before he made the Ring. In fact, it was the Ring of Power that brought Erestor to this parchment.

He peered closer at the faded lines, trying to read between the lines. What had been written about Sauron was little, and those who knew of him did not tell the elves. With the Ring now in Rivendell, it was imperative that the enemy become known.

_Sauron is believed by many to be a Maia, and also Melkor's chief lieutenant._

"So he is powerful, much more so than Mithrandir." Erestor muttered to himself. "What Elrond says is true. The Ring must be destroyed." Carefully, with only two fingers, Erestor lifted the yellowed parchment and turned it over. His fingers came away with the faint residue of ink clinging to them. Erestor set them down on the corner of the page as he read.

_Since the elves defied him, Sauron was forced to transfer most of his life force until the better part of it was contained within the One Ring. _

"What Elrond says is true. The Ring must be destroyed. It is the only way to defeat him. The Eye is powerful, but without his Ring, he will fall." He muttered. Erestor leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Where his fingers had rested, a faint fingerprint was visible on the yellowed parchment. Normally, this would have troubled the scholarly elf, but it paled in comparison of the threat of Sauron. Erestor glanced out a small window, judging time by the shadows cast by the moon's silver rays. _Dawn is quickly approaching._

The faintest _swish_ of fabric drew the elf's gaze. "Erestor, are still examining our history?" Elrond walked silently between the rows of books, grey eyes troubled.

"Yes, my lord. However, I have reached a conclusion."

Elrond drew up a chair to the cluttered desk Erestor was seated at. "Please, tell me what you have learned." He sat and gave Erestor his full attention. They had been friends for many centuries, comforting, encouraging, advising one another. Erestor would never hide something from Elrond.

Erestor took a deep breath. He reached for a book that had been set aside. Slowly, he lifted the tattered green cover. Faded runes haphazardly covered the page. "Most accounts seem to agree that Sauron is indeed of the Maiar. His power is beyond that which exists in Middle-Earth."

"As we know well from past wars." Elrond nodded encouragingly.

"That is the only fact I can tell you for certain. All other accounts of his power are muddled and unclear. But, as you expected, most of his power resides in the One Ring. Sauron himself his not powerful, it is his word that is. With the Ring, he would regain his body. Nobody would be able to stop him."

Elrond stood. And took three steps until he could look out the window. Rivendell sat in all its glory below him, sleeping. Elrond lifted his gaze to beyond the mountains. "It is as I feared. We must destroy the Ring." He turned away from the window and returned to his seat. For a long while, Elrond sat with his head in his hands, taking counsel in himself.

"Elrond, tell me what is on your mind," Erestor said gently. "Are we not friends?"

"We are." Elrond agreed. He looked up at Erestor. "And I will not withhold my thoughts from you." He stood and paced in front of Erestor's desk. The wooden boards were well worn from Erestor's own boots. Countless years of mysteries and puzzles had not been kind to the floor. Elrond's robes and the faint sound of his shoes on the floor were the only sounds.

"I will tell you the truth, for there is nothing that you do not deserve to know. The Hobbit-Frodo- carries The Ring, this you know. If Sauron gains it, all the lands will fall to darkness. I greatly fear for our future. Frodo is strong for carrying it this far, but who will bear it to Mt. Doom? There are few that I believe have the strength for the task. Those that come to mind, we cannot afford to lose. Middle-Earth needs him."

Erestor examined his friend. "Estel?"

Elrond nodded. "Yes. Heir to the throne of Gondor." Elrond sighed and sat again. "Middle-Earth cannot afford for him to die."

Erestor rested the tips of his fingers on his temples and stared down at the desk. His blue eyes were half closed as he thought. "Then perhaps the Valar have a Ring-Bearer in mind," Erestor paused between each word, considering it, tasting it, rolling it around with his tongue. "One who will die, and be missed, but who's death will not leave men in ruins. But perhaps that is Estel's fate. It is not for us decide. Only to guide, and to hope. That has been our task, and that is what we will do. Whoever the Ring-Bearer is, he will need guidance. It is not a light task. We will give him hope- that he will prevail. Wisdom- which is to be given freely, and every other thing we can offer. For if he fails, all that is good and right will fall, forever."

Elrond regarded Erestor. The elf was given to saying only what he felt needed to be said. His speech was unusal. But as Elrond thought about it, he realized that every word was true. He rose and looked kindly down at Erestor. "Get some sleep. The advice you gave me is gold, and now your task is done." Elrond walked away, leaving Erestor alone again.

"Gold..." Erestor whispered. In the forest, the snowy white owl hooted softly. Then it spread its wings and took flight, rising up into the starry sky and vanishing. The wolf howled again, mourning for the evil in the world.

**A/N: Having formatting issues. Imagine that the title is centered ;)**


	2. Not All Who Wander Are Lost

_Not All Who Wander Are Lost_

_or_

_What's a Ranger, Ma?_

The village was as peaceful as any. Chickens clucked and pecked at their seed. A dozen raggedy children chased each other amid squeals of laughter. One slipped in the half frozen mud, landing with his already dirty face in a puddle. For an instant, all the children stopped. Then a little girl stepped forward and offered the boy her hand. The boy took it and stood up. The little girl brushed mud off of his filthy shirt with all the care of a mother hen. With twin smiles, the two children ran back to the group and they began their game again.

Halbarad smiled softly from the back of his dark bay horse, Seregon. Seeing the children made him think of his own, a beautiful little boy by the name of Emreth. Halbarad sighed. And his lovely wife, Shraia. He could picture them standing in the doorway of their little house back at the Ranger village. Shraia's raven locks tumbling into her clear blue eyes as always, Emreth's wide blue eyes and dark blonde hair as they watched him ride off once again. He had not seen either of them in over a year. They could be dead for all he knew. Another squealing peal of laughter drew his mind back into his surroundings.

With a soft word, Seregon moved forward. His hooves squelched in the thin coating of mud on the worn road. The past winter had been a hard one. Snow had blocked the passes, making it impossible for Rangers to travel around, making sure that no trouble befell the remote villages of the north. Halbarad sighed. Of course, trouble had fallen on most of them. The last village he had come to had been completely wiped out by a mysterious disease of some sort. Not a soul remained alive. Seeing the children running around had been a relief.

Halbarad paused at a low wooden fence surrounding the perimeter of the village and dismounted. A crude sign hung on a crude little gate read- _Westwind. _The Ranger smiled at the quaint name. He pushed the gate open and passed through. The children immediately dropped their game in favor of staring at the grey cloaked Ranger. Halbarad smiled reassuringly at them.

"Where is the leader of your village, little ones?" They stared silently at him with large eyes. "I am not here to hurt you."

"What do you want, Ranger?" A weak, scratchy voice said.

Halbarad turned. A wizened old woman stood before him. Her back was stooped with her many toils, and the harsh northern weather had creased her face. A crooked cane, gasped in spindly hands, was sunk an inch or two into the mud from her slight weight. Cataract covered eyes searched the area which he stood, not quite focusing on the Ranger.

"I have come to see that all is well, and assist in any way I came, ma'am."

She grunted. "You're late."

"I apologize, ma'am. The passes were blocked with snow."

Again, she grunted. "You're still late. I thought Rangers could defeat any enemy." She mumbled a few more words to herself. "Gwirawen!"

A young brunette woman scurried out from behind a rickety barn, where she had been hiding. "Yes, Aedelira?"

"Take care of this..." The old woman waved her hand. "So-called Ranger."

Gwirawen blushed at Aedelira's words. "This way, Ranger..."

"Halbarad." He bowed to Gwirawen.

"Why didn't you give me that kind of respect, boy?" Aedelira called as she walked slowly toward a small house where she seemed to live.

"Please excuse her," said Gwirawen, her cheeks turning an ever deeper red. "This past winter she contracted a severe illness and only just survived. But it left her with a certain amount of..."

"That is most unfortunate," Halbarad broke in as the girl paused to save her the embarrassment. "But I suppose it was inevitable."

"Could your Ranger magic have saved her?" Gwirawen turned large, pleading brown eyes up at the man.

Halbarad tried to keep his face smooth, but a small grin slipped out. "I have no magics, but there might have been an herb that could possibly have helped Aedelira, but one can never be sure." Gwirawen sighed: Her face fell. "Legends are not always true," he said gently.

"I know..." Gwirawen trailed off. They had been walked down the muddy center road, Seregon following his master. Now, they turned off it and walked through a small gate and into a tiny garden.

The large, dark bay horse stopped and snorted. Halbarad paused and turned back. "_Dorth_, Seregon. _Im rinn._" He bobbed his head up and down.

"What did you do?" Gwirawen asked curiously.

"I told him to stay, and that I will return." Halbarad looked around the small garden. A few herbs, most for cooking and one or two for medicine grew on either side of a well worn path. An overgrown rosemary bush stretched its arm out to brush Gwirawen's dress as she walked past. The scent rising from the plant of overpowering. It reminded the Ranger of the stew his wife would make on cold winter's days, with chunks of venison and potatoes.

He sighed quietly. What he wouldn't give to be back home right now. But he was a Ranger, and he knew how important, and what an honor, bearing that title was.

"If you'll follow me..." Gwirawen opened the door into the small house that seemed to be her home. Instantly, a small boy streaked out and leaped into her arms.

"Ma!"

Gwirawen laughed. "Hello, dear. Was I really gone that long?"

The boy nodded vigorously. "Yes! I found a frog in the garden, and Da caught it, and put it in a jar, and-" He froze. "Who's that?"

"He is a Ranger, Tammour. Say hello."

"Whats a Ranger, Ma?"

Gwirawen smiled. "A Ranger is a brave, brave person. They protect us all as much as they can."

"Oh." Tammour peered at Halbarad. Gwirawen set the boy down, and he trotted over. Halbarad bit back a gasp. Tammour looked exactly like his own son, Emreth. Only...

"Hello, Ranger. Is that really your name."

He knelt. "My friends call me Halbarad, Tammour. So you may call me by that."

The boy's eyes lit up. "Really?" He spun to his mother. "Can I, Ma?"

Gwirawen laughed. "If says you may, then yes."

Tammour's eyes widened as he looked back to Halbarad. "Wow..."

"Now Tammour, don't make the good Ranger stand out here in the cold and damp while you dawdle and stare at him." Her earlier embarrassment was gone, replaced by firm mother hen-ness. "Come inside."

Halbarad straightened, smiled down at the boy, and followed Gwirawen into the small house. A man rose from one of three stools around a tiny table.

"Who is this?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"Ranger Halbarad, Tarmour."

"Well, didn't expect to see one of your kind this year," he said and walked over, offering a hand.

Halbarad shook it firmly. "I apologize, the weather was worse than expected. "I am just glad to see your village intact. You wouldn't believe what kind of horror the goblins have reeked on a few other villages..."

Gwirawen hustled Tammour back outside, ignoring his protests. "I wanna stay and listen to Halbarad talk to Da! I wanna know about the other villages!"

"Those things are not for little ears. Hush now, and-" The door closed behind them.

Tarmour smiled. "Always talking, that one."

"He is brave," said the Ranger quietly.

"Aye. Especially in face of, well, you saw."

Halbarad nodded. "He would make a good Ranger, although, that might be a problem."

"If he wants to, he can do anything," Tarmour smiled sadly. The moved on to discuss other matters. Before long, full night had set in, and Gwirawen returned, bringing a small pot of stew.

"Freyiln gave it to me, knowing how you men like to talk in private," she explained.

Halbarad nodded his thanks, accepting the first hot meal he had had in weeks. The small family settled around their old table, warming their hands on the wooden bowls. Tammour smiled broadly at Halbarad.

"I've decided that I wanna be a Ranger, just like you!" he announced proudly.

"That is a brave choice," Halbarad said softly, gazing at Tammour's left arm, which hung limply at his side, horribly deformed from birth.


	3. The Old That is Strong Does Not Wither

North they went so north I go

on a fruitless search for the beauty

that seems to have vanished for an eternity.

Her cheeks so apple red

and a sweet voice, never impaired.

Eyes of our kind, deep and wise:

The memory of her tending a tree,

graceful in her blossoming orchard country.

She treated them with tender care

to which mine cannot compare.

It calls me to trace what was lost to wind

in a long, fervent search to find

the wives we lost so long ago.

Have you gone to Underharrow?

Or to Tasarinan or Laurelindórenan?

O Fimbrethil, her hair of tasseled corn!

O Wandlimb, dancing under the sun!

Where has thine elegance gone?

My heart, though wooden, will ever long.

Across the Anduin, and ere darkness fell.

Long we searched, but to no avail.

To the wild woods we returned

and forsook them as the seasons turned.

We stride far and wide, up to northern boundary,

searching for a mere memory.

* * *

><p>Treebeard hummed the song as he strode across the land. Since he had returned from Isenguard, the world had been at peace. His ungrateful neighbor, Saruman, was no longer residing there. The shadow of the west had been destroyed. All was as it should be. It was time to take what Ents were left and resume their ancient quest: to find the Entwives.<p>

Other Ents had gone east and west, one south, but Treebeard walked purposely north. Those little hobbit folk had promised to keep an eye out for the Entwives. It also occurred to Treebeard, from the descriptions that the hobbits Meriadoc and Peregrin had given him, that the Entwives would have been quite pleased to make their home in The Shire. There were many acres of rolling hills and pastures in which one could plant a garden. Areas that had been cultivated were made into neat gardens.

Yes, Treebeard decided. If there was anywhere in Middle-Earth that the Entwives would go, it would be to a place full of gardens and orchards. He stopped and looked around him. The sun shone bright overhead, warming his leaves and filling the ancient Ent with energy. Taking a deep breath, he smiled.

"Ho hum hroom, I smell flowers on the breeze: the kind that the dear Entwives love," he said to no one in particular. "Hararoom... I think it is time for an adventure."

Treebeard began to stride forward again, taking his time. He crested a hill and looked down on the wide, green plains of The Shire and smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I apologize for the ridiculously slow update. But I really do put everything into this and make sure it is perfect. I did write the poem, and that was what took so long, lol. It's probably one of the longest I've ever written. Hopefully the next one won't take nearly as long... *crosses fingers*<strong>


	4. Deep Roots Are Not Touched By Frost

_Deep Roots Are Not Touched By Frost_

_or_

_For the White City_

I stared up at the banner beside me, eyes tracing the familiar pattern stitched into the fabric. The White Tree stood out against the black, a symbol of hope. But there was no hope.

My eyes drifted away from the flapping banner and down to the army. I took in each misshapen figure, each rusted blade, each horrendous troll pushing tall siege towers toward the white walls of the city. Walls that would soon be stained red. Their taunts and jeers sucked my heart dry and forced my courage out of the corners of my eyes. The Orc army stretched to the horizon, where smoke still rose from Osgiliath.

How many of these monsters will I kill before I die? How many will my friends and brothers kill? Or will we be crushed under stones hurled by their crude catapults? My hand twitched toward the hilt of my sword. Will I fall under an Orc's blade?

The roars of the attacking army redoubled. My gut twisted in fear as they beat cruel swords upon shields and sticks upon drums. The sound filled the monsters with hunger and us with terror.

"This is the last stand of men," someone whispered. A tear slipped out. More joined it in despair as he kept speaking. "This is our final dawn: this shall be the final time we draw our swords against the forces of darkness." Hooves clattered up the stairs behind us. "This is our end."

"Do not lose heart!"

We turned to see Mithrandir astride his great beast. Both were clothed in white and seemed to radiate with power. Mithrandir's white staff shone with pure light. As I gazed at it, I felt my courage returning.

"Do not forsake your faith! There is always hope, while we remain strong." The White Wizard looked down at us with a grave expression. "Always hope."

I nodded firmly, feeling strength return. We still stood, and none had ever taken the city before.

"Beregond, you have been ordered to the Citadel. Good fortune to you all." Mithrandir spurred Shadowfax forward, calling out encouragement to the other men guarding the wall.

I turned to my brothers. Leave them? Now? How would I know what befell them? Their eyes were sad, but they seemed to accept what I could not. Taking a deep breath, I nodded to them.

"For Gondor."

Then I turned and strode away before I could change my mind. I had to defend the Citadel.

* * *

><p><strong>*blinks furiously* Well, that took no time at all. Probably because I hand wrote it ages ago... Hope you enjoy! (I promise to make the next one long :P)<strong>


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